A gentleman wouldn’t plan the seduction of a woman he’d been sent to take down, but he’d never been a gentleman. He’d grown up a rowdy west Texas shit-kicker, refused to listen to adults who knew better and married Amy when they were both eighteen and fresh out of high school, was a father at nineteen, but he’d never quite got the hang of settling down. He’d never cheated on Amy, because she was a great girl, but he hadn’t exactly been there for her, either. Now that he was older, he was more responsible and felt ashamed of how he’d basically left her to raise their two kids by herself. The best he could say for himself was that he’d supported his family, even after the divorce.
Over the years he’d traveled a lot, become more sophisticated, but good manners and knowing how to order off a menu in three different languages didn’t make a gentleman. He was still rowdy, he still didn’t like rules, and he did like Lily Mansfield. He hadn’t often met women who could hold their own with him, but Lily could; her personality was as forceful as his. She decided what she was going to do and did it, come hell or high water. She had a steel backbone, but at the same time she had a real feminine warmth and tenderness. Finding out everything about her would take a man a lifetime. He didn’t have a lifetime, but he’d take what he could get. He was beginning to think that a few days with Lily would pack more of a punch than ten years with any other woman.
The big question was: What would he do afterward?
Blanc tensed when his phone rang early the next morning. “Who could that be?” his wife asked, annoyed that their breakfast was interrupted.
“It will be the office,” he said, and got up to take the phone outside. He punched the talk button and said, “This is Blanc.”
“Monsieur Blanc.” The voice was smooth and calm, one he had never heard before. “I am Damone Nervi. Do you have the number my brother requested?”
“No names,” Blanc said.
“Of course. This one time it seemed necessary, as we haven’t spoken before. Do you have the number?”
“Not yet. Evidently there is some difficulty—”
“Get it. Today.”
“There is a six-hour time difference. It will be afternoon at the earliest.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Blanc hung up and for a moment stood with his fists clenched. Damn the Nervis! This one spoke better French than the other one, he sounded smoother, but underneath they were all the same: barbarians.
He would have to give them the number, but he would try to impress upon Rodrigo that it would be ill-advised to call the CIA’s man, that it could easily result in both him and his contact being prosecuted. Perhaps not, perhaps the man the CIA had sent didn’t care about who hired him, but that wasn’t something Blanc felt confident about.
He went back inside and looked at his wife, her dark hair still tousled from bed, a robe cinched around her trim waist. She slept in flimsy, low-cut nighties because she knew he liked it, though in the winter she put an extra blanket on her side of the bed because she felt the cold. What if something happened to her? What if Rodrigo Nervi followed through on the threats that had been made years ago? He couldn’t bear it.
He would have to give them the number. He would stall as long as he could, but in the end he had no choice.
18
Swain had a brilliant idea in the middle of the night: instead of finding who had installed the Nervi security system, breaking into the office, and somehow getting the schematics, why not just use the resources at his fingertips? The boys—and girls—and their toys could find and access just about anything. If it was on a computer somewhere, and that computer was online, they could get it. It stood to reason that any security company Nervi used would be up to snuff on all the latest bells and whistles, which meant they were probably computerized. Password protected, yeah, but how tough was that? The hackers on the payroll in Langley would consider that no more worrisome than a mosquito bite.
Besides, that meant they’d have to do the work, and he wouldn’t. All in all, he thought it was a great idea. He was so pleased with it that he sat up and switched on the bedside lamp, plucked his cell phone from the charger, and called right then. Going through the security checks seemed to take longer than ever, but finally he was talking to someone who had some authority.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the woman said. She’d identified herself, but Swain had been preoccupied and hadn’t caught her name. “Things are in an uproar around here, though, so I don’t know when—wait a minute. This is listed as a holding of Salvatore Nervi, deceased, and now Rodrigo and Damone Nervi. They’re listed as assets. Why do you need the breakdown on their security system?”
“They may not be assets much longer,” Swain said. “The word is they’ve just received a shipment of weapons-grade plutonium.” That sounded ominous enough to stir some action.
“Have you generated a report on this?”
“Earlier today, but then no one got back to me—”
“That’s because of Mr. Vinay. I told you things were in an uproar.”
“What about Mr. Vinay?” Jesus, had Frank been replaced?
“You haven’t heard?”
Obviously not, or he wouldn’t have asked. “Heard what?”
“He was in a car accident this morning. He’s in critical condition at Bethesda. The DDO is taking over until and if he comes back. Word is the doctors aren’t optimistic.”
“Shit.” The news hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. He’d worked for Frank Vinay for years, and respected him as he did no one else in the pickle factory. Frank might dance through the daisies when he was dealing with politicians, but with the field officers under him, he’d never been anything but straight, and willing to stand up for them. In Washington, that was not only unusual but almost suicidal, careerwise. That Frank had not only survived but advanced in his job, first as DDO and now as director, was a testament to his worth—and his skill as a dancer.
“Anyway,” the woman said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Swain had to be satisfied with that, because he could imagine the uncertainty and jockeying for position that was going on across the pond. He knew the deputy director, Garvin Reed; Garvin was a good man, but he wasn’t Frank Vinay. Frank had forgotten more about spy craft than Reed had ever known, plus Frank was a genius at reading people and seeing layers, patterns, where no one else did.
Swain felt uneasy about his own status, as well. Frank’s solution for handling the Lily problem might not be the same as Garvin’s. Garvin’s view of the Nervis might not be the same as Frank’s. Swain felt as if his tether to the mother ship had been cut and he was drifting away; or, to use another metaphor, he had already been skating on thin ice by delaying the purpose of his mission, and now he could hear the ice cracking beneath him.
Fuck it. He’d keep to the same course until he was either jerked off the mission or told to alter it—not that he hadn’t already altered it, or at least delayed it, but no one knew that except him. When in doubt, plow ahead. Of course, the captain of the Titanic had probably had the same philosophy.
He didn’t sleep well the rest of the night, which made him crabby when he woke up the next morning. Until, and if, the computer geeks came through for him, he didn’t have anything to do, other than driving by the lab and mooning the guards. Since the weather was chilly, his ass would get cold, so mooning was out unless he was really provoked.
On impulse he grabbed his cell phone and dialed Lily’s cell number, just to see if she’d answer.
“Bonjour,” she said, making him wonder if perhaps she didn’t have Caller ID on her cell phone. He couldn’t imagine her not having it, but maybe she answered in French out of habit, or precaution.